


your favorite regret, my weapon of choosing.

by thepapernautilus



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Biting, Blood, Breathplay, Choking, Consensual Non-Consent, Dubious Consent, F/M, Jealousy, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Patch 5.3: Reflections in Crystal Spoilers, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Suicidal Ideation, Unhealthy Relationships, hatefuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-18 18:29:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28622574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepapernautilus/pseuds/thepapernautilus
Summary: Stelmaria had always—even in the early days, when his eyes were mismatched and she held a bow instead of an epée—had trouble meeting those striking eyes.She felt unbearably seen by them.The worst, most revolting parts of her turned over, accepted and adored.Her past and future laid before him for his perusal.All of her deception and subterfuge laid to waste in his sanguine gaze.Emet-Selch lingers like an impolite ghost in the back of G'raha and Stelmaria's minds, even after everything. Suffice to say, they don't handle it well.
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light, past/implied wolemet
Comments: 7
Kudos: 48





	your favorite regret, my weapon of choosing.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheMalacoda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMalacoda/gifts).



The dead never truly leave us. They linger like impolite ghosts, inconvenient and unwanted in the frays of one’s mind.

Stelmaria was all too aware of the presence the dead could take up. If their bodies were decomposing and their souls gone to the Lifestream, their presence has a definitive weight, measurable even in ponzes.

Emet-Selch— _Hades_ —feels like a ten tonze weight on her very soul.

She felt incomplete—as if she was missing something, as if there was so much more still _there_ —when she watched him fade away into nothingness, a sorrowful smile on his lips as he touched the gaping wound of his chest.

But the pieces fell together, disparate for so long, when she clutched that sunwarmed crystal and heard the voice of the long-dead call her title.

_Though the world be sundered and our souls set adrift, where you walk, my dearest friend, fate shall surely follow. For yours is the fourteenth seat—the seat of Azem._

She can’t bear to lock the crystal away. She carries it like a worrystone in her pocket, turning it over every so often in her hand during meetings or trainings, memorizing the perfect circle of the sun with her thumbpad, sometimes pressing down so hard it leaves an indentation in her skin.

She thinks he can tell, when she’s worrying on the stone. Once, in the quiet of her quarters, he surreptitiously slipped his hand into her pocket and plucked the crystal from her.

She’d snatched it back fast as a whip, ignoring G’raha’s hurt stare as she shoved it into an inner pocket, away from his clever fingers.

He doesn’t try to take it again, but the hurt in his gaze doesn’t lessen. It lingers for weeks, through training, through a visit to the Sultanate, conversations over meals turning strangely silent as they regard one another with suspicion.

 _We promised we’d stop hurting each other,_ Stelmaria agonized as Raha turned away from her one night. _Promised we’d stop lying._

 _Didn’t anyone tell you, hero?_ The velvet voice is as dark and cold as a crypt in her ear. And for a moment, she feared if she looked over, she would see those golden, haunting eyes boring into her. _Old habits die hard._

It lingered like a badly healed thorn in one’s side—too deep and inextricable to simply retrieve, bothersome and distracting, but one learned to live with it. And Raha, as he had ever, learned to live with the pain.

But, as all things, it comes to a boiling point.

Stelmaria enjoyed her drink. To be specific, she enjoyed anything which addled the mind, numbed the senses. When it became apparent to her that simply because they had attained their “happily ever after” things would not be well, she picked up her favorite hobby like an old security blanket. And Raha, as he ever did, joined her in the endeavor.

He started out a bubbly, laughing drunk, conversation constantly spilling over, his arm always draped over her shoulder. His warm, whiskey-drunk breath bathing her face as he whispered low about anecdotes from the Sons of Baldeison, or what _precisely_ he would do with her when they were alone.

But as time went on—as the strain on their relationship grew, as the ghosts of the lingering dead took more and more space in their minds—he turned quiet. Drank more and more liquor, keeping up with even her and Thancred's appetites. That stony silence and anger carried over into the evenings, spilled over into their loveplay.

There had ever been an edge to their relationship. Stelmaria was eager to please, eager to be noticed, to be _appreciated,_ in any way available to her. And how could one not feel loved, molded by another’s hands like clay? She was drawn to the darker edges of the physical, where fear and desire, pleasure and pain bled over into one another, inextricable.

And something in Raha kindled to that.

Answered to her sirensong in the same ways.

He told her once, there were stories of a sickness in the Allagan line, hailing all the way from Emperor Xandes. A propensity towards inflicting pain upon others. Controlling their destinies. Wielding fate as easily as a blade. Taking a strange satisfaction in it. It was as much a part of the Allagans as the scarlet of their eyes.

It was never part of him, until he awoke into the Eighth Umbral Calamity. Then, there was enough of Allag in him to see the difference. He did his best to keep it on a tight leash, refusing to surrender to his baser instincts, to the madness of his birthright.

Stelmaria was endlessly _fascinated_ by it, even if he reviled it.

And nothing goaded her more than to watch him cut loose, half-drunk with whiskey, maddened with need. Pinning her hands above her head, digging his teeth so hard into her skin the blood welled over, fucking her with punishing, slow thrusts, swallowing each of her breathy whines. Her own pleasure was so easy to find then, watching the glint in his eyes, his growing grip crushing on her pliant, willing flesh.

She wanted to be taken, no questions asked. And the worst parts of her wanted to see how far she could drive him to the edge before he did. Wanted to see what he would do, backed up into a corner like that.

Wanted to see what he would render unto _her._

* * *

Raha’s eyes flick down to her hand, yet again. Stelmaria sighs, setting the orange crystal on the table with a clatter. “Go on. Look all you want.”

Giving her a sidelong look, he plucks it from the table. She tells herself she doesn’t feel it, that it made no sense, but something deep within her reverberated like a plucked harpstring, sonorous and aching.

He runs his thumb over the circle before passing it back to her. “Azem’s crystal, right?”

“The fourteenth,” she murmurs.

Raha leans his chair back, sinking low into it, a petulant prince in graceful disarray. Scarf flung off his shoulders, the V of his tunic hanging low, exposing wiry scarlet curls scattering his broad chest. He’d thrown himself into his training, and while his body in the First had been lean, almost _starved_ out of necessity, he was flourishing under these conditions, regaining lost muscle and more.

Stelmaria was, admittedly, far from immune to it.

“It makes one wonder, if the rest of us may be remnants of sundered Ascians,” he contemplates, his voice worn low and husky by the late hour. “Destined to meet again and again, no matter the star.”

“Do you think you might be?”

“Mm.” He takes another drink, and she can’t help but linger on the way his knuckles flex beneath the skin, the taut tendons, the eddies of veins beneath his pale, freckled skin. “Perhaps. Urianger _did_ say my soul was dense—as dense as yours, but that is likely due to the Eighth Umbral Calamity.”

“It seemed,” she speaks cautiously, knowing how quiet he could get if she brought Emet-Selch’s name up, “that just as there was a connection between Emet-Selch and I, there was one between you and him, no?”

His boot hits the floor and she startles at the sound.

“By ‘connection’ you mean a mutually assured hatred, then perhaps.”

“You two were not so different—“

“‘Aria.” He is brusque. “We were _quite_ different.”

She sits up in her chair, unrelenting. “You both loved and lost, lived extended lives, you were determined to your courses—“

“—I sought to save two stars from destruction, and he wanted nothing more than the deaths of _millions_ for the sake of—“ he gestures to Azem’s crystal on the table, “—the sake of someone beyond saving, the dream of a past long dead. He didn’t even see us as _real_ people, Stelmaria.” He pours himself another drink—his hand is shaking at this point, that scarcely concealed rage so near the surface nowadays. “Insult me all you like, but do not equivocate our actions.”

“I wasn’t,” she huffs. “I was pointing out that _personality-wise,_ you two share more in common than not.”

He wasn’t having it. “I have _nothing_ in common with that man, he tried to murder _everyone_ —“

“—He was tempered by Zodiark, Raha, he was hardly in charge of his actions—“

“For gods’ sake, you need not extend your inherent goodness to the extent of empathizing with the enemy,” he hisses. “You have already done enough.”

“I killed him,” she says bluntly. “My actions speak for me. And I wish, every day, it had not been necessary.”

Raha falls silent, watching her with hooded eyes as she tucks the crystal back into her pocket.

“I imagine he would rather hate to be compared to you, too,” she sighs, resigned. Tipping back her own glass, setting it on the polished table with a clink.

Raha’s voice is rusty, the contrition disused on his tongue. “I apologize. It is… I think you will understand, when I say that I spent a very long time convincing myself I was doing the right thing—I _had_ to do the right thing.”

“Emet-Selch thought he was doing the right thing,” she replies.

He sighs. Rubs a sore spot behind his neck, considering her with those scarlet eyes. Blood spilled on a moonless night, nearly liquid black at this late hour.

“It’s unlike you, to question morality in such ways.”

She flinches at the accusation.

“I must admit, I have found myself more and more curious about the Ascians,” she mumbles, “curious of Amaurot. I wish… I wish what I did had not been necessary.”

“You wish he lived.”

She nods, slowly. Warily.

Raha sighs. His mouth twists, and she wonders at what he might say but he keeps his peace, running one long finger around the rim of his glass contemplatively.

She starts. “You looked like—“

“I had nothing to say,” he says abruptly.

Oh, he was _definitely_ biting his tongue.

“The Exarch was much better at concealing his emotions—though not by much,” she adds, cocking her head at him.

“Stelmaria,” he sighs, “It was the sort of thought I would not vocalize. Harmful and poorly thought-out.”

“Do we not trust one another?”

The silence that falls between them says everything.

“I trust you with my life—my soul and more,” his words are unexpectedly warm, and they take her breath away in their sweetness, “but I hold you dear enough I would not willfully harm you with my carelessness.”

“You cannot keep editing the truth to suit your own needs,” Stelmaria tosses her hair back, crossing her legs and tipping her head back to consider him. “I would hear what you have to say.”

His eyes dart suspiciously towards her, then back to the liquor. His decision made, Raha tips the bottle and pours himself another drink.

Purest, wildest impulse drives her to knock it out of his hand.

He stares at her, perplexed, as she folds herself back into her chair, satisfied with herself.

He scowls, mopping up the spilled drink with a rag. “How very mature.”

“I want my question answered,” she insists.

“You would hear my thoughts?”

“Always.”

He throws the soiled rag to the side, meeting her gaze. Stelmaria had always—even in the early days, when his eyes were mismatched and she held a bow instead of an epée—had trouble meeting those striking eyes.

She felt unbearably _seen_ by them.

The worst, most revolting parts of her turned over, accepted and adored.

Her past and future laid before him for his perusal.

All of her deception and subterfuge laid to waste in his sanguine gaze.

“Sometimes,” he says, his voice low, conspiratorial, “I wonder—not in any real, _meaningful_ way—what would have happened, if I died and he lived. If you might be…” He closes his eyes, the scarlet fringe of his lashes sweeping over his cheeks, “ _happier._ ”

She should have heeded his words.

“After all this time, you are still fool enough to think I’d rather you—?"

“—I wasn’t, at least, until you said _his_ name in your sleep,” Raha snaps.

He throws it down like a gauntlet.

She’s far too tired to consider it, ready to surrender the fight before it can even start.

Stelmaria comes to her feet, knocking over her chair in her rush and leaves. Walking fast without looking, tears threatening to cloud over her vision. How did they crawl under each other’s skin like this, when had things become so… _convoluted._

“‘Aria, _‘Aria!”_ he calls after her.

She ducks into a supply closet; he’s following her and quick to give chase. He crowds her against the wall, swabs and brooms clattering to the floor.

She looks down, hot, angry tears at the edges of her eyes, unwilling to let him see how much he was getting to her. 

“Look at me,” he whispers, softly. Cradling her chin between his fingers. _"Please."_

She jerks away, and curse him, he was fast—faster than her. Grapples her wrists in those warm, calloused hands, keeping her at bay easily. “Stelmaria, let’s _talk_ about this—“

“If you came here to talk, you wasted your time,” she huffs. “I’m not interested, not any more.”

His eyes darken.

Oh, how her heart _races._

“Far be it from me to deny you that which you desire,” he breathes, before yanking her chin up and crashing his mouth into hers. He reaches an arm behind him, slamming the closet door closed, sending them both into complete darkness.

He’s all teeth with none of the niceties, nipping at her bottom lip til swollen before quickly moving on to her cheeks, stealing upwards to nip at her ears. They flatten back as she keens, arching into him, bringing both hands to his face to steal him closer. His hands are roving over her body, all their familiar haunts; the swell of her breasts, sliding down the gentle slope of her belly, hiking up her skirts and shoving aside her shorts to stroke her wet heat—she nearly loses her footing then, her leg coming up to hike around his hip—

Both their ears instinctively flick upwards.

Voices outside.

The joyful, light tones of Thancred chased by Urianger’s smooth, low tenor.

“Raha, _stop,_ ” she hisses, slamming a hand over his mouth.

She feels him go very, very still beneath her.

And then, he’s moving.

Moving _her,_ twisting her so she’s face-first into the wall, struggling with her skirts and shorts in hasty, fumbling movements.

“Think you can keep from singing, ‘Aria?” he growls in her ear.

She flattens her hands against the wall, bracing herself, heart running _wild_ with a terrible, forbidden thrill at his words.

They had never done this, nothing ever so brazen. She simply didn’t think Raha would be the _sort_ to be excited by such a thing. She had suggested misappropriations of his concealment spells when he was the Exarch and he had always brushed them aside with one of those infernal chuckles.

A different man entirely tangled his hand in her hair, shoving her face into the wall as the other clumsily slid himself into her, clothes tugged aside just enough to give him access.

She stays silent and still, biting hard on her lip, and as he hilts himself in her in one smooth, movement, a muffled squeak slips out of her.

He drives out a clenched moan when he starts moving.

Raha flattens their bodies together, his broad, warm chest against her back, arm twined around her to get to her front; “Wanna see you come,” he breathes in her ear, hardly more than a ghost, as he fucks her into the wall. When she struggles to contain another groan he nuzzles aside her hair, biting into her neck, towards her jaw, and she squirms against him, torn between losing her mind and her sensibilities, no longer able to deny him _anything._

His breathing turns ragged, desperate, breathy moans against her ear, _gods_ he was filling her, crowding everything besides him out of her mind. The snap of his hips grows punishing, his hands digging into her hard enough to bruise.

Urianger and Thancred’s voices grow louder, and she can almost make out the scraps of their conversation. If they opened that door, they would _certainly_ see them, she had no doubt of it. And if he fucked her any harder, there was no doubt they would hear what was happening through that thin wall. She feels him grow frantic, swearing a low oath under his breath as he hilts in her, working her front, almost _angered_ with how quick he was going.

“I’m not stopping,” he groans, “’til you get yours.”

He wouldn’t have to wait long; she could already feel it, ready to blossom deep in her belly, warm and trembling and fluttering. “Don’t,” her harsh whisper trails off into a whine, “ _please_ don’t stop, Raha, _Raha—!”_

She breaks around him, clenching on him, clawing at the wall. He twists her head to crush her mouth with his, swallowing all her sounds, never letting up his frantic, desperate pace.

He stills behind her, hands settling on her waist, as she struggles to calm herself down.

“‘Aria,” he breathes, brushing her hair from her face with unbearable tenderness. “Let me—I shouldn’t have said what I did, let me make it up to you—“

“I don’t want to talk,” she mutters, petulant, still muffled by the wall.

He lets out a low, frustrated groan.

He didn’t ask permission, and she was too addled—either by the sex or the alcohol—to even consider it. Urianger and Thancred's voices have disappeared. He is all but hauling her off to their quarters and she almost— _almost_ —puts up a fight, twisting out of his arms at the last minute as the door slams behind them.

It was her quarters, but he had overstayed his welcome—overstayed so long it simply became _theirs._ They are both prone to messiness in their own ways—Raha with his frenetic notes and disastrously piled books, she with her herbs and tinctures and bottles, rosemary hung in the window to dry, a bundle of lavender on the bedside.

It had once been a place of refuge, but more and more, it felt like a warzone.

A warzone haunted by the souls of the lost, the souls of the damned.

Stelmaria takes a deep, steadying breath. Terrible though she was with words, even she knew these wounds were deep enough to be lethal, and must be treated quickly.

“Raha—“

“Shut up,” he snarls. She startles at the sound, ears folding back, her tail instinctively falling to the floor. His eyes widen with regret, and she can’t bear to see it.

She can’t soothe him, so she does the only thing thing she can.

 _Inflame_ him.

“If you’re going to do this, do it right,” she snaps. “You’ll find no fight in me.”

Something in his gaze hardens, and she feels a wild thrill of _fear_ strike up her spine, from the base of her tail to the very top of her skull.

He strips off his shirt in one smooth movement, kissing her harshly in the next. She keens into him, feeling her knees turn to water, her anger melting into something _more_ at his touch. He tumbles her onto the bed, following soon after, pinning her into the mattress with surprising strength.

“I want to make you mine,” Raha’s voice is low and dark, hardly above a hiss, pinning her arms above her head. “I want…”

“What do you want, Raha?” she whispers. Fearful.

Almost _afraid_ of what he would say.

He’s parting her robes, hiking up her undertunic over her breasts, warm hands—hands both Spoken, with new callouses, new intricacies she’d memorized—sliding over her pale, shivering skin, covering her with them, testing his grip.

“I want,” he murmurs, bending down to leave shockingly gentle kisses on her panting belly, “I want you to— to forget he ever—“

She can’t stand it. Can’t stand his tender mercies, the silken sweetness to him.

“You’ll have to try harder than this if that’s what you want,” she scowls.

Those scarlet eyes flash.

His hand slides up between her breasts, her collarbones, her throat.

Wraps his hand around her neck.

Just enough to constrict her breathing. Testing her. Testing _himself._

It was something they had discussed, but he had _never_ before attempted.

“Of course,” he says sardonically, “you would choose the most difficult path for me.”

Perhaps he feels her pulse fluttering beneath his palm, wild, as if sensing how _dangerous_ this was, because his eyes widen, then he squeezes harder.

She can’t stop the low keen that rips out of her.

It is a sickness unto itself, to find such pleasure in his turmoil.

There is no art in what passes between them. Only carnal, base desires. He is aggressive, keeping her hands pinned above her head, ripping her smalls in his haste to bare her.

He reminds her less and less of the kind man she’d grown to love, and more and more of the quiet, self-righteous determination she associated with the Crystal Exarch.

Desperate. A man who knew the day and nature of his death. A man who, by all rights, _shouldn’t_ be alive.

It should sicken her, to know that he felt he had to resort to that discarded persona after everything.

Raha strips her bare, leaving her shuddering, naked on the coverlet as he works her—

— _claims_ her.

Miqo’te had always been partial to biting. Lovemarks were common in both Seeker and Keeper tribes, and they each sported their own from one another with an abashed pride.

Rarely did they ever break the skin.

She yelps in surprise when he bites the swell of her breast, sharp canines piercing the soft flesh with ease. He looks up at her with a self-satisfied smirk as he licks the blood from his lips before moving down, blood trickling from the wound.

The scarlet is impossibly vivid on her pale, flushed skin as it drips down her sternum, almost lazily heading towards her belly.

The cradle of her neck, the swell of her hip, the tender inside of her thigh. She writhes, torn between pain and frenzy as he marks her, equal parts fascinated and horrified by _her blood_ on his lips, the way she tastes the coppery tang on his tongue.

And then he slides down to her apex, and she squirms away in fear before he pins her in place with one firm, unyielding hand on her belly.

The other hand comes up to her neck.

Circling her throat.

And then, he bows his head to his task.

“So wet already,” he wonders with a dark chuckle, licking a wet stripe up her, settling at her pearl with a decisive flick of his tongue, humming as she writhes against him. He’s had her like this a hundred ways and he knows _precisely_ what she wants, works her with an almost ruthless efficiency.

He brings her to the brink of pleasure, over, and over, and it is a curse how well he knows her body. How well he can _sense_ her in a way no one else can, as if he can feel the very aether of her soul. Raha tightens his grip on her throat ever so slightly as she draws closer to climax until she’s dizzy, the room spinning, body impossibly lose and light and _cold_ —

—and right when she thinks it’s over, he withdraws entirely, propping up on his elbows to watch her unwind with a cruel, knowing smile.

“Pray tell your thoughts, 'Aria?”

She licks her lips, dry, panting. “Throttling you,” she admits. _“I—this—Raha—“_

She realizes with a sinking feeling he was checking to see _who_ she was thinking of.

And as long as she was thinking of him, apparently that was sufficient.

Raha bends back down to her with a possessive growl, and she fades into blank overwhelm.

She loses sense entirely of the scene—of _herself._ She is only present in the most distant sense in her own body, conscious only of his tightening grip on her neck, the sprawl of unbound scarlet hair across her thigh, and, gods above, his _mouth._

Every hum, every moan, every filthy word. All were mesmerizing, all held her attention like nothing else. Her mind razed to the scope of him, to those sanguine eyes watching her.

Watching her for weakness.

Her mind is fuzzy, her very sight leaving her as she _almost_ reaches the brink, struggling for air when he releases her. He turns his head back to her thigh, nursing the bloody mark he’d left on her, making a muffled, indistinguishable sound into her skin.

“What?” She gasps, unable to make it out.

“You’re mine,” Raha growls into her—she _feels_ it more than hears it. “Mine—mine _alone.”_

“You don’t _—_ “ she struggles for breath, startling into a yelp when his mouth is on her cunt again, burying his face into her. " _Ahh—!_ You don't have to _—"_

“You, who I have waited a hundred _godsdamned_ years for,” he breathes, coming off her with an obscene _smack,_ “who I have risked everything for, my body, death itself—and I would, again, and again, and _again_ —I will suffer nothing less, than to be yours. _Only_ yours.”

He doesn’t wait for her answer—he works her in a frenzy, his grip on her throat grows nearly _crushing,_ robbing her of breath—

someone makes a broken, wild scream—

It was her, her voice stripped of dignity itself—

“’Aria,” he murmurs, calling her, beckoning her over the edge—two thick fingers slip inside her, seamless, no resistance—her insides clench and unclench—

She’s aware of vague impressions. Her body is numb, boneless in every sense of the word—she feels impossibly _tired_ all at once, she can do nothing but weather his storm—

She lingers in that in-between for gods knows how long. Euphoric, fantastical, _phantasmal._ Reality itself melting away.

Consumed entirely by him.

* * *

She’s aware of impossibly gentle hands moving her, tucking her limp body into the sheets. Smoothing down the wild mess of her hair. Someone hums something soothing. A cool rag on her face, her neck.

Stelmaria blearily opens her eyes. Before her Raha is the very picture of concern, cradling her chin.

“‘Aria,” he whispers, “I was—are you—is everything alright?”

She groans, stretching her limbs. She feels impossibly _sore,_ her muscles sore from being so tense for _so_ long. “’S’fine, that was—Raha—“

He bows his head, russet ears flattening to his skull. “I—I wasn’t thinking, I— it was entirely selfish of me, I didn’t ask permission, I just—“

“Raha,” she calls to him, gentle.

He stiffens, unwilling to look up at her.

She reaches out a trembling hand, smoothing it over his hair, splendid in its disarray.

“You did nothing I did not ask for,” she assures him, “and I would be lying if I didn’t admit I… _enjoyed_ myself.” She cannot fight the smile on her lips.

His shoulders deflate, a long sigh leaving him. “We should—we should discuss—This cannot happen again, we must come to terms with whatever this is between us _—_ “

A flare of irritation takes her, sated though she was.

She tempers it, too tired to fight him. 

“Tomorrow,” she says instead, her hand drifting down to his face, cradling his cheek. Raha turns his head to press a gentle kiss into her palm, breathing against her.

“Tomorrow.”

Perhaps he knows she doesn’t mean it. They have ran these cycles time and time again, unable to help themselves—turning on one another like weapons, using one another’s weaknesses.

Emet-Selch’s presence was only one such thing they would use to torture one another.

Raha blows out the lanterns, folds his body behind her in the mattress, settling her against him.

They fold together perfectly and seamlessly, and yet, Stelmaria still feels as if something is missing.

As if something always _would_ be missing.

A ghost unwilling to be lodged.

**Author's Note:**

> stelmaria belongs entirely to themalacoda.  
> OH BOY  
> thank you so much to themalacoda for handing me a dumpster fire of a relationship and lighter fluid. what a fun fucking prompt to write. hope you enjoyed! 🖤  
> [my carrd.](https://thepapernautilus.carrd.co/)


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